


My Waves Meet Your Shore

by litbeyondmeasure



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: And hair, Angst, Bisexual Gwaine (Merlin), Canon Era, Drowning, Fluff, Guilt, Gwaine Being a Disaster But Trying His Best, Gwaine Takes Care of Lancelot Because Lance Always Takes Care of Everyone Else, Gwaine and Lance Both Catch Feelings Easily, Gwaine is Soft For Lancelot, Gwaine's Hair (Merlin), Hurt Lancelot (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, I Give Them Both a Bit of Backstory, It's Getting Cold in Here So Take Off All Your Clothes and Change into Dry Ones, Knife injury, Lancelot Falling in Love With Gwaine's Smile, Lancelot Tries and Fails To Hide His Injury, Lancelot and Gwaine Bond Over Merlin, M/M, Protective Gwaine (Merlin), Protective Lancelot (Merlin), Set Between s03e08 and s03e12, Shared Trauma, Sharing a Bed, Tavern Brawl, They're Both Idiots With Big Hearts, This Is Me Making Up For the Lack of Interaction Between Gwaine and Lance in Canon, This Started With a Plan But My Muse Intervened So it's Just 9k Words of Gwaine Taking Care of Lance, Very easily, of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 03:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30015417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litbeyondmeasure/pseuds/litbeyondmeasure
Summary: It's been a little over two years since Lancelot escaped Hengist and he's been picking up casual work ever since, living with no real purpose. Then he stumbles into a tavern and is quickly dragged into a fight, all because of a winning smile thrown his way. And the one at the heart of the conflict is someone who perhaps has more in common with him than either of them first thought...(Written for Day 6 of Camelove2021: Always By Your Side)
Relationships: Gwaine & Merlin (Merlin), Gwaine/Lancelot (Merlin), Lancelot & Merlin (Merlin)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11
Collections: Camelove 2021





	My Waves Meet Your Shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiGi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiGi/gifts).



Lancelot had simply wanted a quiet drink in the corner of the first tavern he came across. What he had not wanted was to be using his sword to bat away tankards flying at a guy with _amazing_ hair but a dreadful sense of self-preservation from all directions. He cast a glance towards the being who had landed him, quite unexpectedly, in such a brutal fray and regretted the action as soon as he caught a glimpse of the long hair ducking beneath a fist.  


Lancelot himself had worn his hair long not too long ago, in the style of many of the knights that he’d seen growing up. After leaving Camelot, one of the first things he had done was to cut it short. It had been better to cut the dream loose as soon as he could, rather than cling to the last few breaking straws for a little longer. If anything, shorter hair had been easier to maintain when he was constantly on the move. And it meant that it wasn’t getting caught in between people’s fingers as they yanked the instigator of the fight back.  


The events leading up to the brawl had all run together like the watercolours Lancelot had used to mix as a child. One minute he had been ordering a drink and the next there had been a remark thrown out and the person stood next to him had dealt a blow to the back of the head of the man stood next to him. Which had then resulted in said man retaliating by smacking the attacker on the upside of the head with his tankard. Lancelot wasn’t quite sure why he had decided to get involved, but he had a nasty feeling that it had something to do with the self-assured smile that had been thrown his way around the attacker as he had entered.  


If it wasn’t his moral compass that landed him in sticky situations, then it was always a pretty smile.  


Instinctively he shifted his body closer to the stranger as a makeshift shield. As far as Lancelot was aware, this man was not armed, unless a fiercely wielded tankard counted, and Lancelot was definitely better at fighting than stitching up injuries. Besides, it felt good to be fighting to protect someone, rather than simply for entertainment.  


A hand clapped his shoulder and gently pushed him to the side. ‘I can handle myself,’ the stranger said, withdrawing a sword. ‘Although,’ he added, noticing that the rest of the tavern seemed to be descending on them, ‘feel free to continue fighting. I’m Gwaine, by the way.’  


‘Lancelot,’ the wanderer replied with a quick nod. ‘What exactly did you say to them?’  


‘Oh, I caught that one—’ Gwaine pointed at an attacker with a large earring. ‘—with his hand around the pouch that was at your waist. Naturally, I told him that wasn’t on, and he decided to hit me.’  


Lancelot lowered his arm to search Gwaine’s face, reeling back as a knife was plunged into his thigh. Immediately returning to the fray, he pushed back the attacker with his sword and moved instinctively closer to Gwaine, angling his body to conceal the knife from his eyes.   


‘Thank you,’ he loudly said, trying not to lose focus again as Gwaine made a very impressive disarming move.  


‘No problem,’ Gwaine grunted, launching forward again and piercing the pouch with the point of his sword. As it slid down his sword – it was a good job that it was only a cheap vessel for Lancelot’s money, and not something of sentimental value – Gwaine glanced over at him. ‘Shall we make a hasty exit now that justice has been served?’  


‘Absolutely.’  


Seizing Gwaine’s hand and a cloak lying on the floor, Lancelot ignored the knife sticking out of his leg and pulled his companion out of the tavern. He let go of his hand once they were out in the open air and hastily stuck his arms through the sleeves of the cloak as they ran. One glance over his shoulder informed him that they were being pursued, and he frantically called out to Gwaine, who had started to streak ahead.  


Gwaine restlessly waited until Lancelot was level with him and, frowning slightly at the slow pace, fumbled for his hand. Permission was granted by Lancelot through a tight grip and he allowed Gwaine to drag him along, gritting his teeth as pain shuddered up his body in panicked waves. It was when Gwaine’s sword knocked against the knife that Lancelot cried out and dropped to the floor, fingers slipping through Gwaine’s.  


With a quick glance and a curse, Gwaine didn’t stop to ask what was wrong. Instead, he hastily pushed away the cloak and silently assessed the situation, sheathing his sword and scooping Lancelot up with both arms. Cutting across the protests, he sharply instructed Lancelot to keep hold of his sword and stab any attackers if they came close and, taking a stubborn breath, started sprinting.  


Lancelot closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on anything but the jarring sensation as his body lurched with Gwaine’s. He should have seen the knife coming. When he had worked for Hengist, he had been able to anticipate almost every blow before it had been dealt and escaped largely unscathed every time. Then again, none of his opponents had tried to prevent theft. Or had given him a smile quite like Gwaine had. Lancelot silently cursed. It hadn’t helped that Gwaine’s shirt was far too low-cut to never _not_ be distracting. In fact, if Lancelot dared to open his eyes, then he would be able to admire the shy shape of the shirt that left so much exposed.  


He opened his eyes and was immediately struck hard by a necklace in his left eye. Taking that as the universe telling him to keep his gaze to himself, he promptly shut his eyes again and his mind began to drift to the weapon sticking out of his leg. Curiously, Lancelot opened his eyes to study it, then the edges of his peripheral vision began to become slightly fuzzy.  


Noticing that Lancelot was becoming heavier, Gwaine glanced down and gently shook him. ‘Hey. No fainting on me. Not yet, at least. I don’t work out enough to carry your dead weight and run for my life.’  


Recalled by the rise and fall of Gwaine’s voice, Lancelot forced himself to shake his head and take deep breaths. ‘Are they still onto us?’  


‘Not for much longer,’ Gwaine grimly replied, changing direction to run alongside a river. ‘Sorry about this.’  


Casting another quick glance over his shoulder, Gwaine stumbled towards a group of trees and darted to the riverbank, gently lowering Lancelot into the water before sliding in himself. Grasping the plan, Lancelot let himself sink below the surface. Then, subtly, Gwaine manipulated his body so it formed a barrier between Lancelot and the bed, his arms hooked around Lancelot’s chest. Distantly they heard the thundering footsteps of their pursuers, and the fuzziness Lancelot had pushed away before was stronger than Gwaine’s grip.  


When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, Gwaine pushed up with his legs and burst through the surface of the water. Luckily, the group that had been chasing them had elected to go through the woods and the surrounding area was deserted. Unluckily, Lancelot was not responding to anything he said. Pushing down a growing sense of panic, Gwaine hauled Lancelot onto the bank and gently slapped him. He sat back on his heels, waiting for a response, then slapped him again, this time with a little more force than before.  


He ran his fingers through his hair to get it off his face and quietly exhaled as he realised just what he had to do next. ‘Well, I hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me,’ he murmured to himself before pinching Lancelot’s nose and leaning forward to meet his mouth.  


Summoning all the breath he had in him, Gwaine transferred it all to Lancelot. After several breaths, he pulled away to listen for signs of life, his eyes darting down to Lancelot’s chest. Either the chainmail was obscuring any rise and fall, or Gwaine needed to do the whole thing again. His fingers fumbled with the belt around his companion’s waist, the metal catching the skin around his nails as he struggled to remove it. When that was dealt with, he tore off Lancelot’s cloak – which he had certainly not been wearing when he had entered the tavern; Gwaine would have remembered him being decked out in something that saturated his lips so beautifully – and manipulated his arms to pull the chainmail over his head. Tossing it aside, he pinched his nose again and ducked down.  


When Gwaine looked at Lancelot’s chest again, there was still no movement. Hands shaking, he began to unlace the doublet and cursed vehemently as his fingers became knotted. All these layers hadn’t stopped him from getting stabbed in the thigh. As Gwaine’s hands continued to struggle with the doublet, his mind flickered to the scar on his own thigh from when he’d also taken a knife for someone. He glanced back down as the material beneath his fingers gave slightly.  


There was still no movement.  


This time, he pushed every fibre of his being into each breath. As he lowered his ear to Lancelot’s mouth, his hand curved around his waist. ‘Come on. Come _on_. I don’t have the energy to bury you today, so you’re going to have to work with me.’  


Gwaine slotted his shaking hands together and placed them firmly in the centre of Lancelot’s chest. Steadying himself with a breath, he pushed them down and built up a pattern with a quick rhythm. They should never have gone in the river. Gwaine should have sheltered Lancelot and then taken his chances with the mob. After all, he was the one they had the quarrel with. But no, he had to go for the easy way out, as he always did.  


Uncertainly, he lifted his hands and furiously wiped away tears. He barely knew the guy. People died every day. What did it matter that this one person had stumbled into Gwaine’s peripheral vision and was just as quickly going to stumble out of it? Gwaine knew nothing about him except his name. He moved towards his mouth again.  


It was on the second breath that a hand knocked against his leg. Instantly jerking back, Gwaine watched as Lancelot began viciously coughing and hastily raised his head onto the pillow of his thighs. Then he recalled what his mother had done when he had been hauled out of the lake near their home and mimicked her movements from memory, rolling Lancelot onto his side and looking at him anxiously when he’d shuffled around to the other side of him.  


As the coughing subsided, Lancelot’s eyes began to close again and Gwaine shook him gently by the shoulders. ‘Hey. Stay with me.’  


Wearily, Lancelot opened his eyes with a faint smile. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, my mobility isn’t great at the moment. I can’t exactly go anywhere.’  


Gwaine dropped his gaze and picked at the grass. ‘You know what I mean.’  


Lancelot reached out weakly and caught his fingertips. ‘Thank you. I’ve caused you enough trouble; you can leave me here now if you like.’  


Head jerking up, Gwaine frowned. ‘You’re not serious. You think I’m going to have gone to all that effort to revive you only to abandon you and have you murdered by bandits? I think not. You need to get warm, so we’ll find somewhere.’ He glanced around. ‘There’s probably a village round here, we can get some dry clothes and food. And a bed.’  


‘You can use my money—’  


‘Absolutely not,’ Gwaine firmly interrupted, removing a boot and tipping it upside down. ‘I was the one who thought it was a good idea to drown you, so I’ll pay for a room somewhere. There must be at least _one_ inn that I haven’t been barred from.’ He counted out the coins that had fallen to the ground in his palm, then counted them again. There was enough for a cloak, perhaps, and a warm drink, but not for night at an inn. ‘How much do you have?’ he quietly asked.  


‘Enough for a night at an inn.’  


Gwaine ran his hands through his hair and flicked off several strands that came loose. ‘I’m sorry for getting you into this.’  


‘I’m sorry for getting _you_ into this. If I’d been paying attention in that tavern—’  


‘Why weren’t you paying attention?’ Gwaine asked, brow furrowed.  


‘That’s...not important. The main thing is that this isn’t your fault.’ Lancelot struggled to sit up, then looked down at himself for the first time. ‘Have you undressed me?’  


‘I couldn’t see you breathing,’ Gwaine weakly said. ‘I panicked.’  


Unable to sustain a sitting position, Lancelot fell back to the ground. ‘Our next problem is that I don’t think I’ll be able to walk.’  


‘That’s easily sorted.’ Gwaine shoved his boot back on his foot and picked Lancelot up again, muscles contracting as he took care to avoid the knife. ‘We should probably deal with that knife.’  


‘Please don’t remind me,’ Lancelot murmured, stretching to hook his fingers around his clothes.  


Gwaine squatted to make it easier for him to reach and redistributed the weight his feet were taking. Thankful that his hair was still wet so he didn’t have to keep flicking it out of his face, he stepped into the river and waded through to the other side, trying to keep Lancelot above the surface. He walked in silence, concentrating on not dropping his companion and adding to his injuries, looking behind them every now and then. Lancelot was heavy but the weight wasn’t uncomfortable; he was perfectly balanced across Gwaine’s arms. In fact, the clothes he still had on seemed to hang off him slightly, and Gwaine wondered how long it had been since Lancelot had had a rounded meal. Gwaine himself hadn’t had one for at least a fortnight, but Gwaine didn’t have a knife sticking out of his thigh. Not today, at least.  


He wasn’t sure what had made him smile at Lancelot as he had entered the tavern. Gwaine smiled at almost every slightly attractive person he saw, but he was a lot more cautious when it came to those dressed in chainmail. If they were in chainmail and had a weapon, then there was every chance they could beat him in a fight. But he had seen Lancelot slip in through the door a little uncertainly, as if a stranger to the realm of taverns, and stick to the edges of the room. It seemed like he had been reluctant to step out into open space. His eyes had slid over to Gwaine and, like a reflex, Gwaine had smiled at him. It hadn’t even been in a civil manner. It had been like the smile he had given Merlin when he had last seen him; he had been able to feel the same muscles contorting in his cheeks.  


Lancelot had dropped his eyes and smiled back self-consciously and when he leaned against the bar, Gwaine had seen that he seemed to be using it as a crutch. He’d seen someone completely exhausted by existence, and there was no way that he was going to allow such a person to be robbed on top of whatever it was Lancelot was struggling with.  


Gwaine glanced down at Lancelot, who was looking stiffly up at the sky, like he was desperately trying not to make any more physical contact with Gwaine than was necessary. ‘I have washed recently,’ Gwaine informed him, a marginal indignance running through his tone. ‘If you want to get more comfortable, you can.’  


Opening his mouth, Lancelot closed it again and hesitated. As Gwaine looked away, he felt a gentle pressure against his bicep and a muffled: ‘Thank you.’  


Biting back a smile as he quickly looked down again and saw Lancelot’s head nestled in his arm, Gwaine continued in silence.  


Lancelot knew that he shouldn’t be enjoying the situation he was in. Of course, there was still the guilt pressing down on his chest like Gwaine’s hands had but, for the most part, he wasn’t vehemently opposed to being carried around by a rather attractive person. When they finally reached a town and Gwaine gently lowered him by a stack of hay bales before promising a hasty return and warm clothes, Lancelot could still smell him. His jacket had borne the scent of sweat and smoke and it was a combination that Lancelot never would have thought would bring him comfort.  


He tried to sit up, fingers digging into the hay to support his weight, and he glowered mildly at the knife in his leg. It was an inconvenience to have it sticking out of him, but he knew enough about wounds to know that it was not a good idea to remove it until he had the means to stitch up the hole that was left behind. And, when Gwaine returned, the means to stitch it up had been brought in the form of a seamstress. Lancelot stared, open-mouthed, wishing that he had at least been given a little time to prepare himself for what was coming.  


Gwaine’s hair had started to dry and fell in his eyes as he dropped down beside Lancelot. ‘There’s an inn on the other side of town. It was going to cost more to do this there, so are you going to be alright doing it now?’  


Lancelot laughed quietly. ‘I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?’  


‘Not really.’ Gwaine offered a hand, raising an eyebrow as Lancelot hesitated. ‘Come on. It’s not going to do any harm.’  


Taking his hand, Lancelot closed his eyes and set his jaw. Glancing over at the seamstress, who was biting her lip to stop it from trembling, Gwaine pulled the knife out of Lancelot’s thigh and then cupped his head with his other hand, drawing it into his chest. He could feel Lancelot’s ragged breaths against his skin, the warmth travelling down his shirt and gradually drying him off. Unconsciously he brought Lancelot’s hands to his throat and rested his chin on top of Lancelot’s head, pressing his lips against the crown, eyes still fixed on the seamstress, who was trying to stem the blood flow and stitch the wound.  


Gwaine had found some more coins in the lining of his jacket, and they were definitely going to find their way to her.  


It was an odd sensation to feel needed. One of Lancelot’s hands had broken away to bunch up the material of Gwaine’s shirt in a fist and something hot and wet dripped through the linen. Noticing that Lancelot’s injured leg was shaking and throwing up obstacles for the seamstress, Gwaine adjusted his position so that one leg was pressed down over Lancelot’s in the attempt to keep it still. Lancelot pushed himself further into Gwaine’s body and Gwaine tightened his grip, arm encircling his shoulders.  


He wished that he’d seen the person who had stabbed Lancelot. Because if he ever saw him, he would string him up by the ankles on the highest tree he could find to make him pay for what Lancelot was having to endure. If Gwaine had had more money, he would have taken Lancelot to the best physician the kingdom had to offer, but Gwaine now had nothing but the clothes on his back and the fierce urge to protect Lancelot from further harm.  


Lancelot, when Gwaine breathed him in, was enveloped in the scent of rain on the dry ground – though that could have been a side-effect of him almost drowning. Struck, Gwaine closed his eyes. It was life that had made him smile at Lancelot: the promise of life that flickered behind the weariness, the fierce passion burning in his fingertips as he had leaned into the bar. Gwaine didn’t know why it had been obscured. Gwaine didn’t know anything other than Lancelot was in pain and needed him, and he slotted so seamlessly against his body.  


Without even realising what he was doing, he kissed the top of Lancelot’s head.  


Lancelot became suddenly very still. Then, very slowly, he extracted his head from the cave of Gwaine’s body and looked up. His face was streaked with tears and his lips were parted in pain, emitting uneven breaths, and his eyes flickered from Gwaine’s to his lips. With a barely perceptible nod, Gwaine lowered his head to kiss him carefully on the mouth.  


The lips that Gwaine brushed against were lightly salted with tears and it felt different to any kiss he’d ever had before. Their hands were still in the same position but Gwaine could feel the undiluted desperation more keenly than if they had been tearing off one another’s clothes. There was a warmth that he’d never experienced before and a very satisfactory sensation of being filled instead of being drained. Of course, he was only doing it to distract Lancelot. Contrary to popular opinion, he did not passionately kiss people he had only known for one day.  


Yet when the seamstress had finished, they didn’t pull apart for several seconds. Then Gwaine hastily stood to chase after her and push the coins he’d found into her hand.  


Left alone momentarily, Lancelot fell against the hay bales. The pain had been, expectedly, excruciating, but the slight touch of Gwaine’s lips had revived his senses. He wasn’t quite sure why he had responded by wanting to deepen the physical contact. Lancelot had always been one to sit on his feelings until they eventually went away – largely because he had a habit of catching feelings for people who were unavailable in some way or another – but he hadn’t immediately repressed what had risen within him then. Because he hadn’t caught feelings for Gwaine, he sternly reminded himself. He also had a habit of catching feelings for people exceedingly quickly, but Gwaine hadn’t done anything to warrant such a capture...except for saving his life twice.  


Lancelot closed his eyes and softly swore. He was doomed.  


‘Lancelot?’  


At the panic piercing through Gwaine’s words, Lancelot opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Can I not have one moment’s rest?’  


‘Only when I’m close enough to see you breathing,’ Gwaine shortly said, kneeling down beside him. ‘I brought some dry clothes for you.’  


‘Thank you.’  


Beginning to loosen his doublet further, Lancelot pulled it over his head and let his shirt follow suit, averting his eyes from the marks he’d received under Hengist. Gwaine’s gaze flickered to his face as he handed him dry clothes before skittering down to his legs.  


‘How do you—’  


‘I think we can save that for when we’re at the inn,’ Lancelot quietly interrupted, trying to push himself off the ground. ‘I’m going to try and walk because you’ve done enough for me today.’  


Loosely translated as: Lancelot didn’t want to tempt himself further by resting his head in Gwaine’s chest again, as comfortable as it had been.  


Gathering the clothes strewn across the floor and helping Lancelot secure his sword, Gwaine shoved one shoulder underneath his companion’s arm and wrapped his arm around his back to steady him. They moved together and uncertainly, Gwaine following the set of directions that he’d memorised.

Lancelot was beautiful in candlelight.  


The shadows thrown across his face sculpted him in lines unknown to mortals and the highlights from the flickering flame were like the sun had drawn a fond finger across his skin before kissing him goodnight. He sat on the bed, leaning against the wall, with his hands cupped around a steaming mug of mead, looking at Gwaine with a constant smile. Their empty plates, afforded by scraping together the last of their money, were stacked on the small table and Gwaine was sitting on a chair backwards, fiddling with his own mug.  


Lancelot had completely changed his clothes and Gwaine had shrugged off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, and taken off his boots and socks. He was almost dry but hadn’t uttered a word of complaint at the fact he had been dripping water for most of the afternoon. His main priority had been Lancelot. His main priority still was Lancelot.  


He’d been wandering alone for so long that it should have been difficult to adjust to having someone be so dependent on him, but it was easy with Lancelot. One look could tell Gwaine a thousand things, and he was able to anticipate Lancelot’s every need just by the slight twitch of his hand or the subtle sliding of his eyes. Lancelot had been grateful to the point that it was almost sickening, but it was nice to be appreciated. It had certainly been a long time since Gwaine had truly cared for himself, let alone someone else.  


The warmth that had been transmitted to him during the kiss had yet to dissipate; each time he looked at Lancelot he was overwhelmed with the imprint of his touch. Not that he’d ever let on just how intimately Lancelot had touched his soul. Gwaine had a habit of getting on people’s nerves, so it was best to be detached – or at least to pretend to be. He’d let himself open up with Merlin, then had hastily tried to backtrack when he was banished from Camelot, but it had been too late. Merlin had wormed into his heart and Gwaine would drop everything for him every time. And now he was thinking that he might do the same for Lancelot. He _had_ done the same for Lancelot. Everything he had to his name had been given to him. His money, his time, his heart. And Gwaine was shaken by just how quickly he’d surrendered everything.  


The Lancelot sat on the bed was worlds apart from the Lancelot who had lain still on the riverbank. That Lancelot had been leached of life and this one was radiating an assured heat that crossed the room in ripples, seeping into Gwaine’s bones with a sturdier grip than he could receive from any fire. Gwaine still had the urge, every now and then, to reach out to Lancelot’s chest and check that life was still beating beneath the skin. But he didn’t. Because that would go against his policy of being detached. As much as Gwaine wanted Lancelot near him for the foreseeable future, he was painfully aware that everyone left him alone in the end, and it was only a matter of time before Lancelot followed suit.  


Dropping his gaze to his mug, Gwaine ran his fingers over the curves of the vessel and let his hair fall in his eyes to obscure the expression lurking in them. If he looked at Lancelot, he’d betray everything he had been trying to keep at bay. If he looked at Lancelot, he’d want to fall against him, to lap up his warmth like it was the elixir of life. If he looked at Lancelot, he’d fall a little more in love with him. And Gwaine couldn’t afford such luxuries. He’d loved many people, once upon a time, but that had amounted to nothing. His father had been killed, his mother had starved to death, and his sister had sold him to a bandit leader at the tender age of twelve. Everybody left him, in the end. That was all he could be certain of.  


‘Gwaine?’ Without hesitation, Gwaine looked up to meet Lancelot’s gaze and the latter folded his good leg beneath his other knee. ‘Do you usually end up in tavern brawls?’  


‘I have a lot more recently,’ Gwaine answered, lowering his eyes with a smile. ‘But the universe always seems to throw something good in my path not long after.’ His eyes flickered towards Lancelot again, hoping that the seemingly casual remark hadn’t given too much away. ‘Do you usually end up fighting strangers?’  


Now it was Lancelot’s turn to look away. ‘I have a lot more recently. I thought that I’d finally settled, you know, found where I belonged. Turns out it was just a fever dream.’  


‘I’m the same. I thought I’d found somewhere I could live out the rest of my days, but I was so irrevocably wrong.’  


Lancelot’s voice was quiet. ‘What happened?’  


‘Met a guy,’ Gwaine began, shaking his head with a marginally bitter smile, ‘risked everything for him, got kicked out of the kingdom, and he was too much in love with a prat to come with me. What happened with you?’  


Lancelot traced the rim of the mug with his finger. ‘I met a guy who risked everything for me, we broke a couple of laws and I left before I could get kicked out. He was too much in love with a more important man to come with me.’  


Nodding, Gwaine set his empty mug on the table. ‘You know the worst thing? I’d do it over and over again, if it meant he’d just look at me in the way he does one more time.’  


Lancelot drained the rest of his mead. ‘How did he look at you?’  


‘Like I wasn’t a screw-up. Like he wholly accepted who I am. And he didn’t want me to be anybody else. I don’t know. Nobody’s looked at me like that for a while.’ Gwaine glanced sideways. ‘Except for you right now.’  


Flustered, Lancelot dropped his gaze. ‘What was his name?’  


‘Merlin.’  


Head snapping towards him, Lancelot frowned. ‘Mine was also called Merlin.’  


Gwaine nearly fell off his chair. ‘Does he live in Camelot?’  


‘Yes.’  


‘Neckerchief and eyes like irises?’  


‘Ye—Wait, what?’  


‘Neckerchief. I said nothing else.’  


Casting his companion a suspicious look, Lancelot stretched down to put his mug on the floor. ‘That’s the one.’  


‘Well.’ Gwaine picked the mug up and slid it beside his own. ‘Looks like we have something in common after all.’  


‘I never said we didn’t.’  


Watching Lancelot pick at the blankets on the bed, Gwaine scuffed the floor with his bare foot. ‘Say we saw Merlin again. How would you say we met?’  


‘For me,’ Lancelot began with a deadpan expression, ‘I’d have to say wrong place, wrong time, wrong drink.’  


‘You didn’t even get a drink.’  


‘Yeah, because you threw it at someone before I had the chance to consume it.’ Lancelot hesitated. ‘Or even pay for it, actually.’  


Gwaine couldn’t quite conceal his laughter behind his hand. Still smirking, he stood up and stretched, grabbing a pile of blankets stacked on the second chair before he started to layer them up on the floor. He heard the beginnings of a noise in Lancelot’s throat and turned around, eyebrow raised.  


‘What are you doing?’ Lancelot asked.  


‘Going to bed.’  


Lancelot began to swing his legs over the side of the bed. ‘You should have this; you must be exhausted after lugging me around all afternoon.’  


Gwaine folded his arms. ‘And you must be exhausted after being stabbed and nearly drowning. I’m not letting you get out of that bed.’  


‘And I’m not letting you sleep on that floor,’ counteracted Lancelot, looking sternly at his roommate.  


‘You paid for the room.’  


‘You found the inn.’  


As Lancelot’s foot twitched, Gwaine viciously pointed at it. ‘Put it back on the bed. If you get out then I refuse to sleep.’  


‘And if you lie down on that floor then I refuse to sleep.’  


‘Well, it looks like neither of us will be getting any sleep.’  


There was silence for several moments, then: ‘Unless we both sleep in the bed.’  


Gwaine dropped his hand. The bed was broader than most single beds and Lancelot, when he had been properly sat on it, had barely taken up half now that his armour was off. Tilting his head, Gwaine projected the image of himself settling beside Lancelot. He knew how to make himself as small as possible, so as not to inconvenience anyone, when sleeping. And he’d learnt not to move around too much in the night through various experiences, all of them ending in a beating when he accidentally knocked bandits as a child.  


‘We could both sleep in the bed,’ he quietly echoed. ‘If you stay on that side, there’s very little chance of me catching your wound.’  


Nodding, Lancelot reached for the blankets on the bed and began to unfold them. Refusing to let Lancelot lift a finger after being stabbed, drowned, and stitched, Gwaine had crossed the room in two strides and gently took the blankets from his hands, his fingers brushing over Lancelot’s skin. He paused and looked up just as Lancelot’s eyes darted away. Carefully, Gwaine unfolded them and stretched them out across the bed, trying not to aggravate Lancelot’s leg. Then he turned around to undress further, before glancing over his shoulder.  


‘Is it going to be weird if I sleep without a shirt on?’  


Lancelot, who was in the process of taking his off, poked his head back through the corresponding hole to address Gwaine. ‘I don’t think so? I’m fine with it. Are you fine with me sleeping without a shirt?’  


‘Yeah.’  


There was a pause. ‘And without trousers?’  


Gwaine had to look away again. It was perfectly reasonable that Lancelot would want to sleep without trousers, given that they would probably pull taut over his wound at several points in the night. What was not perfectly reasonable was that the back of Gwaine’s neck was very quickly assimilating heat at the prospect of Lancelot being almost naked. Lancelot, he had to firmly remind himself, was injured. And someone that he barely knew.  


He turned around again. ‘That’s absolutely fine.’ Noticing that Lancelot still had his head in his shirt, he raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you need help with that?’  


Defiantly, Lancelot pulled the shirt over his head, muscles rippling. ‘No. I might, however—’ His face burned with a greater flame than the candle. ‘—need help with my trousers. I can’t lift my leg that well.’ He closed his eyes momentarily. ‘You know what, it probably won’t be that bad; I’ll just leave them on.’  


Gwaine moved over to his side of the bed after removing his own shirt. ‘Like hell you will. You think I want to be woken up by your wincing every time the material catches your stitches? Not that I mean that in an insensitive manner,’ he hastily added. ‘What do you need me to do?’  


Lancelot opened his eyes, which bore an intense desire to throw himself out of the window, had his leg not been damaged. ‘If you could perhaps just lift my torso and I can shimmy out?’  


With a nod, Gwaine placed his arms around Lancelot’s waist and gently lifted him, trying desperately to ignore the warmth of his skin. Grabbing the waistband, Lancelot pulled down his trousers and murmured a word of thanks as an indication that Gwaine could let him go. He didn’t move for a few moments, catching his breath, then leaned over to get the trousers over his ankles and threw them on the floor, now sat in a loose pair of shorts.  


Mission now accomplished, Gwaine extinguished the candle and settled down beneath the blankets, facing away from his companion. ‘Sleep well.’  


‘You too.’  


Lancelot, however, did not sleep well. In the moonlight, his eyes kept finding their way back to Gwaine’s form behind him. He was still struggling to comprehend why a stranger would go to so much effort to save his life several times over. He would have done it for Gwaine in a heartbeat, but that was because everybody he met, with a few exceptions, was worth more than he was. He’d sent numerous men to their horrifically gruesome deaths under Hengist. He’d become numbed to everything when he had been there and it had made him selfish; it hadn’t been until Gwen had been in danger that he’d realised the magnitude of what he was doing.  


Closing his eyes, he crossed his arms on his head. Gwaine would have been better off leaving him. At least it meant Lancelot wouldn’t have had to leave himself. His whole life he had withdrawn himself from situations that would inconvenience other people, and this situation was no different. His entire existence was an inconvenience to Gwaine, particularly because they were both strapped for cash and Lancelot could barely walk. Gwaine would be better off without him.  


Hearing Gwaine shift, Lancelot lowered his arms and glanced across at his companion. There was a soft smile on his lips as he slept – it was a smile that could have easily fooled Lancelot into thinking that he was harmless, had he not heard Gwaine gently put down the very knife Lancelot had been stabbed with by his side of the bed. He could easily imagine that Gwaine could cut somebody fourteen different ways in a matter of seconds, even if he had woken up less than a minute before. Conscious that he was edging closer to Gwaine’s body heat, Lancelot shifted discreetly further away. Then realised that he had, once again, been looking at Gwaine’s smile.  


He closed his eyes and groaned.  


The slightest kindness shown to him, however undeserving of it he thought he was, and Lancelot was gone. Unable to keep his gaze diverted for long, Lancelot winced as he turned on his side, trying to keep his movements as slight as possible. Breathing quietly, he allowed himself to look at Gwaine, formed in the folds of the moon’s clothes, as he soundly slept beside him. He wasn’t quite sure when Gwaine had turned over – Lancelot was usually very aware of even the subtlest of manoeuvres, but apparently when he spiralled he severed his connection to the world around him – but the smile was still painted on his face. The last time he had been this close to someone, Gwen had been tied to him. He supposed that Gwaine was now tied to him, probably unwillingly, now, though not in a physical sense. Instinctively, Lancelot caught the necklace around Gwaine’s throat, glinting like light stolen from the stars, between his fingers, studying the shape.  


‘I hope that, after all I’ve done for you, you’re not going to strangle me.’  


Gwaine’s breath was warm on his face and Lancelot dropped the necklace and his gaze. ‘No, I’m not. Sorry. You sleep very lightly,’ he added.  


Gwaine opened his eyes properly. ‘I don’t, actually. When I’m really asleep a raid wouldn’t wake me. I haven’t been asleep at all.’  


‘Were you laughing at me earlier? When you were smiling?’  


If he hadn’t been then, Gwaine certainly was now. ‘No. I didn’t even realise I was smiling, I was just listening to you shift around.’ His expression melted into one more akin to concern. ‘Is it your leg?’  


Lancelot shook his head. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry for keeping you awake, I’ll just move to the floor.’  


As he went to sit up, Gwaine placed a firm hand on his chest, where bruises had formed since the scene by the river. ‘Absolutely not. We’ve already had this argument, and I want you where I can see you.’ It was late, and Gwaine was tired and not in control of his own speech. ‘Because you’re pretty. And I like looking at you.’  


Slowly, Gwaine removed his hand and they both slid back beneath the blankets, staring at one another through the shadows. Their earlier kiss hung from their lips in the silence and Lancelot reflexively reached out for Gwaine’s hand. Taking it, Gwaine gently pulled him closer into him, manipulating his legs to avoid making contact with Lancelot’s. Their foreheads were touching cautiously. Gwaine put one hand to Lancelot’s chest as reassurance that his heart was still beating and forced his face to remain as impassive as possible when he felt it thrumming violently beneath his fingertips.  


‘Nervous?’  


‘Shut up,’ Lancelot quietly said. ‘Is that your ring?’  


‘My father’s. He was killed when fighting for Caerleon. It’s all I have left of him, of any of my family.’  


Lancelot closed his eyes. ‘My village was attacked by bandits. I lost everything. Everyone. The only reminder of my family is my own face in the mirror.’  


He didn’t add that he hated his own reflection. If he looked hard enough he could see his family’s disappointment lurking in his eyes.  


Like the touch of grass on bare ankles, Gwaine’s hand skimmed a path from Lancelot’s chest to his face, where he caught the tears that clung to his lashes with his fingertips. It was odd how strongly the desire to shield this man from everything burned within him. It was strange that, lying together half-naked, there was no discomfort lingering in the air like a death sentence. Perhaps it was because, in some ways, Lancelot reminded him of himself. Or, rather, the person he wished he could be. He’d lost count of the number of times Lancelot had told him to leave him over the last day, but each time he had done so, Gwaine had been struck by the gratitude that had followed every refusal.  


Lancelot held himself so strongly, but the strength seemed to be brittle. If Gwaine pressed too hard as he held him, it felt like everything could come crumbling down. And Gwaine didn’t know him well enough to know how to reassemble him. But he’d give it a damn good try if it did happen.  


Gwaine had never been good with words in situations like this. The bandits he’d been raised by had never taken kindly to tears. Instead, his hand glided across Lancelot’s face and settled on his cheek, thumb stroking the skin to entice him to open his eyes. When Lancelot did, the edges of his irises had been softened by the tears and the colours rippled like dying leaves. Gwaine give him a diluted version of the smile he’d flashed him when they’d first met and, uncertainly, the corners of Lancelot’s mouth copied his.  


This time Gwaine was the one to initiate a distraction, softly meeting Lancelot’s lips with his in the attempt to temporarily kiss away the pain. They had both endured enough of that for one day.

* * *

Gwaine had barely strayed two inches from Lancelot for the entirety of that morning. He’d delicately helped him dress in the glory of dawn, watching his skin become transformed by freckles of sunlight cast over his face, and had been unable to resist kissing each place that it touched. They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms a few hours before dawn, worn out by the day’s events and the intervals of desperate kisses between silences as the moon had drowned them both in a tender light.  


Neither of them had spoken about where the physical intimacy left them, but Gwaine had asserted several times over that Lancelot was stuck with him at least until his leg had healed. He just hoped that Lancelot didn’t get sick of him before then. Someone had left a bag stowed beneath the bed and Gwaine had folded Lancelot’s armour and slipped it inside, dropping the bag over his head before helping his companion out of bed.  


Gwaine was trying as hard as he could to not panic about the fact that they had no money or supplies between them. He had a knife, at least, so he could hunt for them and they hopefully wouldn’t starve. And when Lancelot’s wound had healed then perhaps they could find something together. If they didn’t freeze before then. As they exited the room, Gwaine feigned leaving something behind and propped Lancelot up against the wall before darting through the door again. His hand hovered over the blankets and, after a moment’s hesitation, he shoved several in the bag. It wasn’t exactly moral, and Gwaine wouldn’t have done it if it had been just him he needed to look after – in fact, Gwaine wouldn’t have been in the inn at all if it had been just him – but he didn’t want Lancelot to catch a cold on top of everything else.  


Returning to Lancelot, he smiled and murmured something about a false alarm, reassuming the position of draping Lancelot’s arm around his shoulders. They’d be lost in the woods before anyone noticed the blankets were missing.  


Lancelot leaned into Gwaine more liberally than he had done the day before. Gwaine had taken the string from his shirt to tie his hair back and, in the breeze, his shirt fluttered open as if trying to expose the heart lying beneath layers of skin and bone. He reached out without thinking to settle his fingers over Gwaine’s sternum and received a brilliant smile in return, which Lancelot rewarded with a fleeting kiss on Gwaine’s temple. He was too tired to express his deep gratitude through flowing words and soft prose, so he instead translated the sentences that were unable to drip from his tongue into a squeeze of the hand, a scar left by his lips, a spell cast by his hand over Gwaine’s skin.  


If he stayed with Gwaine then perhaps he could have a purpose again: repaying the debt of being taken care of. If he stayed with Gwaine then perhaps he wouldn’t find himself cage-fighting again. He’d lost himself over the past couple of years, allowed himself to be swallowed by the relentless task of existing until he could achieve his dream, but if he lived like that then he could be an entirely different person by the time he could be a knight. A person who was even more unworthy of being one than Lancelot was in his current state.  


Lancelot glanced at Gwaine again. He seemed to have no issue with simply wandering from one place to the next. They hadn’t spoken at length about losing their families; they were still strangers, despite the kissing. And Lancelot, for one, was unsure how to express his soul in a mortal language. He hadn’t even done that with Merlin or Gwen. Or himself, for that matter. If anybody asked him about his past – which they never did – then the only appropriate summary would be a long, drawn-out scream. Lancelot could barely separate the emotions he’d felt that morning alone, let alone everything he’d felt since being torn from his home.  


He had to keep looking at Gwaine. Gwaine, feeling the insistent gaze of his companion burning into the side of his face, glanced over as they reached a hollow in the woods. ‘Are you alright?’  


‘Yeah, fine,’ Lancelot dismissively responded, adjusting his position. ‘Though, can we stop for a bit? I’m feeling a little dizzy.’  


Without even verbally confirming, Gwaine settled him down in the hollow and shrugged off the bag, silently appreciative of the rest. As he pushed the hair off Lancelot’s forehead, he frowned. The skin beneath his hand was hotter than Lancelot’s mouth had been. Hastily he moved his hand down Lancelot’s neck and chest, swallowing the bubble of panic at the thin film of sweat that covered his body. It could have just been the exertion of walking, but Lancelot had said he felt dizzy…  


Gwaine caught the waistband of Lancelot’s trousers and, ignoring the remark about them not really being in an appropriate place to undress each other, pulled down one side. Lancelot’s wound was ringed with yellow pus, the entire area swollen.  


Falling back on his heels, Gwaine put his hands on top of his head. ‘How much pain are you in?’  


‘It’s honestly not that bad—’  


‘ _Lancelot._ Tell me the truth.’  


Lancelot closed his eyes and let his head drop back. ‘When I touch it, I want to scream.’  


Gwaine pulled his hands down his face. ‘You should have _said_ something.’  


‘I’m already enough of a burden as it is.’  


‘Making sure you survive doesn’t make you a burden.’ Gwaine shut his eyes tightly, wishing that he’d paid more attention to the herbs that his mother had handled. ‘I’ll go and find some water and something to bring the infection down.’  


As he opened his eyes and moved to stand up, Lancelot’s hand flung out and gripped his wrist. ‘Please don’t leave me.’  


‘I have to. You’ll die if I don’t go.’ He fumbled with his belt. ‘I know you can’t exactly fight an army at the moment, but I’ll leave this with you so you can at least fling it at anyone who approaches. Then you yell as loudly as you can, alright?’ Setting down the knife beside Lancelot, he frantically searched his open eyes. ‘Alright?’  


Mutely, Lancelot nodded and dropped his hand. Gwaine stood up and began to walk away when he heard a faint call. ‘Garlic. Garlic helps with infections.’  


Gwaine turned on his heel and pressed his mouth to Lancelot’s. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he promised, fingers trailing down his face as he straightened and walked away.  


There was a vague image floating in his head of what a garlic plant looked like and for some reason he was strongly associating it with a moist area. When Gwaine stood still and listened, there was the faintest sound of trickling water and, concentrating, he followed it. It was when he reached the stream that he realised he had no vessel to carry water back to Lancelot. Swearing, he came to the conclusion that he’d simply have to carry it in his hands – or in a rather large leaf that was waving at him from the lower branches of a nearby tree. Checking that it was clean, he plucked it as close to the branch as possible and pushed the stalk into his hair as he set about hunting for garlic.  


Gwaine paced up and down the stream several times, pushing through shrubbery and wrinkling his nose at a number of different plants. Aware that he was straying further from Lancelot, he cast a glance over his shoulder before returning his gaze to the ground and dropping down to his knees at the sight of a plant with white flowers. Brushing his fingers against them, he drew his hand under his nose and inhaled the distinct scent. Now all he had to do was pick various parts of it and transport that back to Lancelot with water.  


As his hand reached out, the ground beneath him shuddered and he jumped up, withdrawing his sword, before he was knocked on the side of the head as he was turning around.

When he heard the horses thundering his way, Lancelot hauled himself into a sitting position and fumbled for the knife, crying out as the hilt collided with his wound. He hadn’t had the strength to cover the wound again and he threw his head back in pain, gritting his teeth. Perhaps Gwaine had got help.  


Three horses burst into the clearing and the figure at the front looked directly at Lancelot, who flung the knife at him with all his remaining strength as he shouted Gwaine’s name. The knife soared past all three of them and distantly landed in a group of bushes. Laughing, the leading horse was directed to turn and Lancelot saw Gwaine draped over the back, secured with ropes. There was a large leaf in his hair and blood was painted across his right temple, dripping in his ear.  


Lancelot’s sword was just out of reach and he couldn’t stand, let alone fight, but he reached for it anyway, fingers scrabbling for the hilt. One of the horsemen at the back dismounted and approached him with a mace, dropping down on one knee. The hand that fumbled over his body was a far cry from the tenderness that Gwaine’s fingers had held, and when the bandit pressed down on his wound to assess the damage Lancelot couldn’t hold back his scream. Gwaine had been so careful not to touch it, had glanced at it every other minute to check that nothing could possibly come near it, and had managed to inspect it only minutes before without causing one stroke of pain. But protecting Lancelot from pain hadn’t protected Gwaine from it himself.  


‘This one’s injured, Jarl,’ called out the bandit beside him over his shoulder. ‘Should I kill him?’  


Jarl – the one who had Gwaine – trotted over, squinting at Lancelot’s exposed leg. ‘Nah, he’ll die by himself soon. And this one came with a sword, so I think we’ve got a good one.’  


Before Lancelot even had the chance to open his mouth and make any kind of negotiation, Jarl had dug his heels into his horse and bolted away, the other two hot on his trail after they were both mounted. Lancelot watched Gwaine’s body shudder out of sight through tears and gritted teeth. Hoping that the anger would transform into adrenaline, Lancelot sharply pulled up his trousers, clenching his jaw as the material caressed his stitches, and grasped his sword.  


Stabbing the weapon in the ground, Lancelot raised himself onto his shaking legs and seized the bag with a grunt. He would track down Gwaine if it killed him. It was his fault he had been kidnapped. If he hadn’t been wounded, then he wouldn’t have an infection, and if he didn’t have an infection then Gwaine wouldn’t have been caught unawares when he was looking for herbs to heal Lancelot.  


His legs gave way and he collapsed on the ground. Perhaps it would have been best if he had drowned in that river.  


Jarl was a name that he had heard thrown around on his travels. Many were taken by him, and few returned intact. Gwaine’s disarming move at the tavern had been impressive, but Lancelot hadn’t properly sampled his fighting skills. But he knew Gwaine was strong. And strength had to be some help in any situation that Jarl forced him into. Lancelot tried to stand again. He could find Jarl’s location and sneak in, somehow, and rescue Gwaine. He couldn’t just leave him to whatever terrible fate Jarl had in store for him.  


When he fell down this time, Lancelot landed on his injury. Vision blurred with thick tears, he let the sword drop and lay there, digging his fingers into the earth. He was going to die slowly, and alone, and having failed Gwaine. And his family. And himself. Lancelot had wanted to protect people from those like Jarl, yet he hadn’t even been able to protect one person.  


He closed his eyes and reached out for hands that weren’t there.  


‘Hello? Is someone there?’  


The voice wasn’t Gwaine’s. Lancelot kept his eyes closed. It would be better if he died right there. Nobody would miss him. He hadn’t seen Gwen or Merlin since Hengist and the last message he’d received from Merlin – quite how he always managed to find him, Lancelot was none the wiser – had been months ago. They had their lives, their place, in Camelot. Lancelot had thought he might have found his place with Gwaine, but that was gone.  


‘Hello, can you hear me?’ Gentle fingers were at his shoulders, but the voice still wasn’t Gwaine’s. ‘Are you hurt?’  


Lancelot opened his eyes and was confronted with a face not yet covered with the scars of living and kind eyes. ‘Yes.’  


‘What’s your name?’  


‘Lancelot.’  


‘I’m Percival. You’re going to be okay.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking with it until the end! This is actually quite different to what I originally had in mind; there was going to be a lot more talking and a lot less...drowning. But, hey, here we are! Gwaine and Lance are two characters that are still fairly new to me in terms of fic-writing, so I sincerely apologise if there are ooc moments, and I will happily take pointers if they were ooc in places!! 
> 
> A huge shoutout to the Camelove2021 mods for putting this fest together and being so absolutely fantastic 💕 This has been such a wonderful month, truly. And a shoutout to Ligi, too, for giving me so many Gwaincelot thoughts to try and organise in my head!!
> 
> Playlist for this fic:  
> \- 'long story short' (Taylor Swift)  
> \- 'To The Side' (Layto)  
> \- 'willow' (Our Last Night)  
> \- 'All the Fucking Time' (Loote)  
> \- 'tomorrow tonight' (Loote)  
> \- 'hell or flying' (Jeremy Zucker)  
> \- 'Lonely Eyes' (Lauv)  
> \- 'I Wouldn't Mind' (He Is We)  
> \- 'fumes' (EDEN ft. gnash)  
> \- 'I See You' (MISSIO)  
> \- 'Odd Ones Out' (Pale Waves)  
> \- 'You Found Me' (The Fray)


End file.
